


Twelve Days to Christmas

by orphan_account



Category: She Loves Me - Bock/Harnick/Masteroff
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the 24th, Georg and Amalia are both admitting they "couldn't wait another day". This is closer a look at the twelve tension-filled days preceding their confession...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twelve Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Dear Friends! I'm *so* pleased to find that there's a fandom presence here for 'She Loves Me'! The recent livestream was my introduction to the show, and I fell instantly in love and wanted to start writing fanfic right away - but, until recently, I assumed there'd be no one to read it! 
> 
> Please do let me know what you think - I used to write a lot of fanfiction, but it's been a while, so I hope I've still got the knack!

As the bus sailed away from the stop, Amalia Balash couldn’t help but smile out the window. She turned a little in her seat, and caught a glimpse of Mr. Nowack strolling away. He had walked her to the bus stop, and they had talked all the way – about the book he had lent her, and about the theatre, which they had passed on their way. Amalia shook her head, wondering at how much had changed between them, and so quickly.

Being on friendly terms with Georg Nowack was really...very nice.

Tucking her bus ticket away in her pocket, her hand brushed against an envelope – and Amalia’s brow furrowed. _Dear Friend…_

She almost didn’t know how she felt about all that, now. He had sent her a very nice letter, apologising for their fiasco of a non-date…but…well, she was distracted, and there wasn’t much point pretending she didn’t know what was distracting her, either. Or, _who_ was, rather.

 _Amalia, you’re a fickle creature,_ she chastised herself inwardly. _A few smiles and a copy of ‘The Magic Mountain’, and –_

But, wait. Hadn’t Dear Friend mentioned that same book, just a month ago? She hadn’t realised it until that moment. It was a fairly popular book, but still… Amalia shook her head, laughing at her own idle fancy. _Imagine if he and Georg were the same person, all this time._

Imagine…

It came crashing upon her in a kind of epiphany, and she only just realised in time that the bus had reached her stop. Stumbling down the steps in a daze, staring blindly down the street, Amalia went over the facts again and again.

He had turned up that night at the Café Imperial. He had understood the meaning of the rose and the book. He was the only person who had (apparently) met Dear Friend. And he had brought her ice cream, and talked of Anna Karenina in _just_ the way... And now he was being so…well, sweet.

It was absurd! It seemed deeply unlikely. And yet…it was by no means _impossible_. And, from her previous (limited) experience, Amalia would not have believed that there could be two so well-read, well-spoken, generally charming gentlemen in the same city. (If Budapest were overflowing with men of that type, she would have gotten engaged years ago!)

Dazedly fishing in her handbag for her key, Amalia took a few deep breaths. She would simply have to see what happened, that was all. Continue writing to Dear Friend, continue chatting with Georg…and, if they were the same person, well, surely it would become obvious. If she listened carefully enough.


	2. Eleven Days

When Georg entered the workroom that morning, Ilona, Arpad, and Sipos were all clustered round Amalia, who appeared to be fishing in her handbag.

“Oh, and here's Georg too,” beamed Ilona, glancing over her shoulder.  
Amalia looked up, and gave him the sort of smile that was already all it took to warm him through.

“Oh, good,” she said, looking down again and pulling a stack of white envelopes from her handbag. “I've got Christmas cards for all of you, Mr. Nowack,” she explained, shuffling through them and beginning to pass them out to each recipient.  
“You're so sweet,” gushed Ilona. (Georg silently, fervently agreed.)  
“Not to mention organised!” Sipos added. “If it weren't for my wife reminding me, I'd never send any. As it is I only ever sign my name at the bottom.”  
Amalia chuckled. “In that case mine will seem ridiculously verbose! But, well, I like the tradition.”

She had reached Georg now, and handed him the last envelope with a sheepish little smile. He took it, and glanced down to see his name written in that elegant hand that was so very familiar. And – he couldn't suppress a laugh of delight – she had turned the 'O' in his name into a tiny Christmas wreath, just the way she sometimes decorated her letters as Dear Friend.

“What?” she asked, her brow crinkling in bemusement.  
“You turned the 'O' into a wreath. How festive.” He grinned down at her.  
“Oh, yes,” she nodded, smiling. “And for Arpad I made the 'D' a little sprig of holly.”  
She looked a little sheepish, as though expecting him to think her foolish – which couldn't have been further from what Georg really thought.

“Well, thank you very much, Miss Balash. I haven't got around to writing Christmas cards myself yet, I'm sorry to say.”  
“Well, you've got a shop to run. That's perfectly understandable,” Amalia smiled over her shoulder at him as she headed out of the workroom.

As soon as she was gone, Georg tore open the envelope and poured over the card she had written him. _Him_ – not her Dear Friend, but him, Georg Nowack.

_Dear Mr. Nowack,_

_Season's greetings! I hope that the holiday season treats you well – and that the hordes of customers do, too! You're really doing an excellent job in Mr. Maraczek's absence, you know._

_And, as it's the season of goodwill, I'd just like to say that I'm very glad you and I have mended fences. (You appear to have excellent taste in books, for a start. And ice cream, for that matter.)_

_Anyway, Merry Christmas!_

_With best festive wishes,_  
_Miss Amalia Balash_

_P.S. What do you think of Charles Dickens?_

Georg couldn't quite wipe the grin off his face. She had underlined her full name, in a little nod to their first eventful meeting. She was so…so...

But this was not the time to dwell on all the things that Amalia Balash was – this was the time to be setting up for a day of business. Georg tucked the card and envelope into his blazer pocket, and strolled out of the workroom, whistling 'Joy to the World'. 

* * *

 At lunchtime, however, Georg allowed his concentration to slip again as sat outside on a bench, taking in the crisp winter air. He was re-reading the Christmas card, grinning to himself...when all of a sudden someone sat down beside him, making him start.

He had half hidden the card away (afraid Miss Balash may have caught him mooning over her message), when he realised that it was only Sipos.

“Oh, hello Ladislav. I was just reading Miss Balash's Christmas card.”  
“Not _re_ -reading it?” asked Sipos, with a knowing smirk.  
“Alright, yes,” sighed Georg, giving up on any pretence. “For the third time. I'm a lost cause, Sipos.”  
“Doesn't that rather depend on these next few weeks? It might all work out, you know.”  
“I hope so...” Georg furrowed his brow.

“Hey, Sipos,” he said, suddenly, “could I have a look at the card she gave you?”  
“...Why?” The older man looked at him blankly.  
“Just to see whether she...wrote a longer message to me...or, you know, whether she sent _everyone_ her 'best wishes', or... Please?”

Sipos rolled his eyes, and pulled the envelope from his pocket. Georg took it from him gratefully, and looked over the contents.

“'Yours cordially'. I got 'With best festive wishes'. And my message _was_ a bit longer… Do you suppose that means anything?” he asked his friend, a hopeful note in his voice.  
“Other than that she's a very nice girl with excellent penmanship? I don't know, Georg. But I hope you find out soon.”  
Georg sighed, standing up and handing back Sipos' card.  
“Me too, Ladislav. Me too.”


	3. Ten Days

Amalia was glad to reach her lunchbreak; the days were getting busier and busier. She had finished her sandwich, and was just taking out a pen and paper when someone sat down opposite her.

“Mind if I join you?”

It was Georg, and he was smiling. Something in her stomach leapt, even as she scolded herself internally.

“Not at all.”

“Are you writing a letter?”  
“Not today,” Amalia smiled wryly, wondering for the umpteenth time whether Georg knew more about her correspondence than he was letting on.  
“I realised that I haven’t sent a Christmas card to Mr. Maraczek – and I’d say he needs one, under the circumstances. I was just going to attempt a silly little poem to put inside it. I’m sure he could do with a laugh.”  
“Ah, so you’re a poet?” Georg enquired, grinning. A week ago she would have assumed he was laughing at her, but no, his tone was perfectly pleasant.  
“Oh, not really. I _can_ put a sentence together, though, on a good day. Perhaps you can help me – a well-read man like yourself?”

She was flirting, she realised with some embarrassment. And what was worse was that it felt so entirely natural.

“Well, I’ll try, but I’m hardly W.H. Auden,” Georg admitted with a grin.  
“We want something a bit more upbeat than his work, in any case,” Amalia smirked. “I’m thinking a festive theme, with some topical references to the shop.”  
“Perhaps we can adapt an existing carol?”

Before she knew it they were laughing like a pair of school children, grabbing the pen back from each other to add or cross out a line.

“ _Four emery boards / Three powder puffs / Two musical cigarette boxes_ –”  
“That doesn’t scan,” Amalia interrupted.  
“Ah, what’s an extra syllable, give or take?”  
“Don’t let Auden hear you say that.”

Georg, who just taken a sip from his coffee mug, nearly choked himself laughing.

“Well, Miss Balash, as much as I hate to cut our creative meeting short,” the man sighed, checking his watch, “I think we’re both almost due back on the floor.”  
“Oh, of course!” Amalia flustered, hurriedly folding up the draft poem. In truth, she had almost forgotten they were at work.

“Uh, perhaps we could continue this later, on our walk to the bus – i-if you have time, that is,” Georg offered – and he seemed, as he had done a lot lately, slightly flustered.  
“That would be very nice, Mr. Nowack.”  
She offered a sincere smile, and dared to wonder whether he might be feeling even half of what she was.


	4. Nine Days

Georg wasn’t sure whether to scold or congratulate himself. He had seen the shop through another hectic, successful day…and had still found moments here and there to enjoy the sight of Miss Balash going about her work; reaching up on tiptoe to a fetch a parcel from high shelf, or turning on the charm for a customer. (Which, he had to admit, _did_ make him faintly jealous, when the customer in question was male.)

And now the shop was closed and somehow it was just the two of them, again. (The other staff always seemed in such a rush to get out of the place!) Georg looked up to see Miss Balash slowly making her way towards the workroom, and felt a jolt of panic. 

“Are you in a very great hurry today, Miss Balash?”  
She had spun around to face him almost before he had spoken, and was now regarding him expectantly.  
“No, not at all.”  
“I was thinking maybe a cup of coffee on the way to the bus?”  
He had been trying to sound off-hand, casual – and knew he’d failed miserably. To his surprise and delight, however, Amalia beamed.  
“I’d like that, Mr. Nowack.” And she really sounded like she meant it.  
“So would I,” he admitted, a little giddy with relief. “Uh, well, I’ll just get my coat.”

In a few minutes’ time, Georg had locked the doors, and the two of them were heading down the street in the direction of the bus stop. It was a chilly night; he noticed her shiver a little and hug her coat tighter about her, her cheeks fetchingly pink with the cold. He wished he could offer to warm up one of her hands.  
_Don’t even think about it!_

They chatted about the day, about Arpad’s recent debut as a clerk, and soon they were approaching the little coffee shop that Georg had taken note of the day before. It was just opposite Amalia’s bus stop – the perfect way to prolong their post-work strolls.

“Ohh, that’s better!” Amalia breathed, shrugging off her coat as they stepped inside the quaint little shop.  
“And smell that coffee! I’ll get it – you take a seat.”  
Amalia made her way to the table nearest the fogged-up window, while Georg ordered two coffees and – on a whim – a little package of Turkish delight, wrapped up in pink cellophane. Some part of him was very aware that this looked – and felt, to him at least – a lot like, well, a date.

“I thought we deserved a treat,” he explained, taking a seat opposite her and proffering the sweets. “I hope you like Turkish delight?”  
“I do!” she beamed, untying the ribbon and pulling the cellophane aside. “Thank you very much, Mr. Nowack.” Taking a piece, she pushed it back towards him, and he took one too.  
Taking a dainty bite, she closed her eyes for a moment. “Mmm, rose-flavoured! The best!”  
Suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be eating rather than staring at her, Georg took a bite. The blend of rose gelatin and powdered sugar really was delicious.

“I was always a bit wary of Turkish delight as a child,” he admitted, “but it’s really grown on me as I’ve aged. I think the idea of flower-flavoured sweets put me off.”  
“What was your favourite Christmas treat, then, when you were little?” Amalia asked, smiling at the waitress as she delivered their cups of coffee.  
“Well, anything chocolate, to begin with,” Georg grinned reminiscently. “Peppermint, too – candy canes. And my mother always used to let me taste the marzipan, whenever she was decorating the cake.”  
“Oh, mine too! She still makes what I think are the best Christmas cookies around; last year we had my little six-year-old cousin over, and had a great old time decorating them.”

 _She’s just…enchanting_ , Georg marvelled to himself, as Amalia regaled him laughingly with stories from her childhood. _How did I not realise it earlier?  
_ And, as she popped the last cube of Turkish delight into her mouth, a dusting of sugar remained on her lower lip. Georg was just wondering how to draw her attention to it (without making it obvious he’d been staring at her mouth) when the bus rattled into the stop across the street.

“Oh, is it time already? I’d better dash!”  
Amalia got to her feet, with an apologetic smile. “But thank you so much, it’s been lovely.”  
“Thank you for joining me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
“Yes. Goodnight, Mr. Nowack.”  
“Goodnight. Oh, ah – Miss Balash?”  
“Yes?” She was smiling.  
“Ah, you’ve just got a little sugar, on…”  
Georg made an awkward little gesture towards her lips.  
“Oh!” Amalia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she gave him a blushing smile. “How embarrassing!”  
“Not at all,” he assured her, hoping he didn’t look too obviously adoring.  
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow! Goodnight!”

As she dashed across the street, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders, Georg gazed after her, mentally preparing himself for a cold walk home. Still, he mightn’t feel so cold if he let his mind wander to a certain pair of sugar-dusted lips…

 _You’re a cad, Georg,_ he chastised himself, _and you don’t deserve her._

_But oh, I want her…_


	5. Eight Days

The shop had emptied quickly upon closing; Ilona, Arpad, and Sipos had disappeared to the workroom, and Mr. Nowack was upstairs, tending to some paperwork. Glancing around just in case, Amalia tiptoed back to the shelf of perfumes, eyeing up the row of tester bottles. She needed a Christmas gift for her mother, after all, and it would be nice to get her something from Maraczek’s.

 _Hmm, not Flowers of Spring…perhaps Autumn Heather?  
_ Taking a bottle from the shelf, she spritzed some onto her wrist, and did a little twirl to let it settle. It was nice, being the customer for a change.

“Miss Balash?”

She jumped. Mr. Nowack was standing at the bottom of the stairs, smiling questioningly at her.  
“Oh, uh,” she blushed, “I was just testing… I need a Christmas gift for my mother, you see, and I thought she might like one of our perfumes.”  
“Ah,” he grinned in understanding, coming to join her by the shelf.

“Well, miss, if perfume is what you’re looking for we have an extensive range,” Georg began, his voice instantly deeper and smoother than before. “Young ladies like yourself tend to favour the headier, more romantic fragrances; say, _Serenade_ , or _Rose Corsage_? Here, why don’t you try a little of that while I think of an appropriate scent for your mother?”

He was joking around, doing his salesman routine, she realised. Turning on the charm. And Amalia was by no means immune.  
In fact, she was increasingly aware of how alone they were, in the empty, half-lit shop.

“Mmm, see, that’s lovely on you,” Georg flattered shamelessly, leaning in just a little as she dabbed her neck with _Serenade_. She was trying very hard not to blush – he was only joking around, after all – but was not entirely sure she was succeeding.

“But for your mother…”  
He turned away, scanning the shelf, and she took a moment to compose herself.  
“How about this? _Mirage_. It’s very elegant, and mature, without being at all dowdy. Here…”  
He sprayed a little perfume on a strip of card, and handed it to her.  
“Mmm, yes, actually, I think Mother would like that,” she nodded, handing it back to him.

“Excellent. So you’ll take a bottle of _Mirage_ …and you’re sure you won’t take the _Serenade_ as well? I’m sure men’ll just be falling over themselves – if they aren’t already –”  
“ _Mr. Nowack_ ,” she laughed, blushing, and giving him a playful little shove, “you are incorrigible.”  
“I _am_. You’re right. I do beg your pardon, Miss Balash,” Georg grinned apologetically, returning to his usual, natural manner.

“But in all seriousness, you can get that bottle for your mother at a staff discount. I’ll run it up on the till in the morning.”  
“Oh, thank you very much,” Amalia smiled vaguely, unsure whether she felt more relieved or disappointed that he had stopped the flirting and the flattery. “Well…I’d better fetch my coat.”

Beating a rather hasty retreat to the workroom, Amalia felt her burning cheeks, and wondered – not for the first time – what on earth she was getting herself into. Georg could so easily be Dear Friend, and even if he wasn’t…

 _No, no, just wait and see. And do try not to blush every time he so much as looks at you._  



	6. Seven Days

Georg had always been something of an early riser, and, given his new position in the shop, he needed to arrive early to make sure everything was in order. It was purely coincidental that arriving early also increased his chances of spending an extra few minutes with Miss Balash – who didn’t seem to be late these days nearly as often as she had used to.

He had unlocked the shop and stepped back outside to consider the window display, when he turned at the sound of heels on the cobbles. Miss Balash was coming down the street towards him. Quickly checking his reflection in the shop window and taking a deep breath, Georg attempted a casual wave.

“Good morning, Miss Balash!”  
“Morning, Mr. Nowack! Are you thinking of updating the window display?”  
“I’m considering it.”  
“Well, if you want a hand, I’ll just hang up my coat, and-”

Later, Georg put it down to the fact that he’d had a lot of practice at watching her out of the corner of his eye. This meant that when, in her haste, Miss Balash slipped with a little yelp on the icy front step, he had caught her around the waist before he knew exactly what he was doing. Heart thudding with the shock – and, to be frank, with the feeling of Amalia Balash pulled tight against him – there was a long moment in which Georg could only stare.

“Thank you.”  
She had not pulled away, or released his lapels.  
“You’re welcome…”

Suddenly realising that he should well and truly have let go of her by now, Georg cleared his throat and put some distance between them, though still steadying her at the elbow.

“Uh, are you alright? You didn’t twist anything?”  
“No, I’m fine, I think. Thank you,” Amalia gave him a rather bashful smile, stepping further away and straightening her coat.  
“Oh good. Well, uh, do be careful. And I’ll make sure that step gets de-iced.”  
With a brisk, slightly too-casual nod, Miss Balash disappeared at speed.

Left standing in the thin morning sunlight, Georg let his eyes fall shut with a groan. At this rate, he’d end up just grabbing her and kissing her before the week was out. And as attractive a prospect as that might be… _No, no, no – not an option._ _You can’t just go and kiss a girl without explanation – not when there’s so much explaining to be done!_

No miraculous solution presented itself, though he stood there for a good few minutes. However, it _did_ dawn on him that it would really be prudent, and only polite, to suggest that Miss Balash took his arm as they walked the icy streets to her bus stop at the end of the day. And they should probably walk quite slowly and carefully, too. Just to be safe.


	7. Six Days

Ilona Ritter’s day was _not_ going well. Her feet were killing her, custom was flat out, and old Mrs. Gergel had complained at length that Maraczek’s didn’t stock her favourite shampoo in a larger bottle – when the factory didn’t even produce a larger size!

Given this sorry state of affairs, Ilona almost thought she was imagining it when she heard bright, cheery humming from just beyond the workroom door.   
_Who on earth can be in that good a mood?_

Hobbling into the sanctuary of the workroom, Ilona stared incredulously at the sight of Amalia Balash, carrying a teetering pile of prettily gift-wrapped parcels as though they were the lightest things in the world, and beaming as she went about it.

“Wha-”

But before she could even enquire, Georg appeared in the doorway behind her, obliging her to step out of the way.

“Excuse me Miss Ritter-”

He stopped mid-sentence, at the sight of Amalia.

“Oh, Miss Balash,” he hurried forward. “Would you like a hand with those?”  
She smiled her thanks, and for a moment they were laughingly occupied with the business of transferring half of her tottering pile into his arms – which involved some standing rather close together.

They probably thought they were being terribly subtle about it, Ilona mused. Which was really very sweet…because in actuality, so many sparks were flying that they might as well have just sent up a flare.

Becoming aware that she was regarding her new boss with the same kind of indulgent smile one might give a precocious six-year-old, Ilona turned quickly away, smiling to herself.

_Well, well, well… This will be interesting, won’t it?_


	8. Five Days

“Are you sure this doesn’t amount to bribery and corruption?” asked Sipos, raising a sceptical eyebrow as he studied the handwritten sign Ilona had made.  
It read ‘LATE NIGHT SHOPPING, ONE NIGHT ONLY – complimentary mulled wine!’  
“Nonsense,” Ilona waved a hand airily. “It’ll just entice the customers in…and maybe make them a little merrier, and therefore more inclined to buy our wares!”

It was seven o’clock, and they had closed the shop for a brief half-hour in order to rally themselves for an extra shift.  
“Thank you for staying on late, everyone,” said Georg, in his best manager’s voice. “Mr. Maraczek will appreciate it, I’m sure. And you can be off home at ten o’clock on the dot, I promise.”

“Right, are we nearly ready?”  
Ilona lifted the lid from a large copper pot, and the mingled scents of merlot, cinnamon, cloves and citrus rose tantalisingly into the air.

“Alright,” said Georg, “round two. Miss Ritter…”

* * *

 

All in all, the idea proved a success. The mulled wine was strategically positioned so that the scent wafted onto the street every time someone opened the door, and between that and the novelty of late-night shopping, there seemed to be plenty to attract their customers.

As the last late-night shopper wandered out, nursing a paper cup of wine and humming merrily, everyone turned at once to look at the clock.  
“Phew! That’s me for the night,” declared Ilona, making a dash to fetch her things from the workroom. Sipos and Arpad followed in a flash.  
“Well,” sighed Georg, looking to Miss Balash, who alone had remained on the floor, “I guess tidying up the mulled wine is the manager’s prerogative.”

Before she could reply, Ilona, Arpad, and Sipos emerged from the work room, coats and hats akimbo, and practically ran out the front door, calling goodnight over their shoulders as they went.

Raising her eyebrows in amusement at her colleagues’ haste, Miss Balash crossed the room to join Georg near the door. She glanced down into the fragrant pot of wine, which was not quite empty.

“Well, I’m sure disposing of that will be an _awful_ chore...”  
“Miss Balash, are you implying that my motives for volunteering to clean up are anything less than pure?”  
She shot him the kind of challenging look that had used to drive him so crazy…and still did, as a matter of fact, though for entirely different reasons.  
“That remains to be seen.”

“Perhaps you’d be convinced of my good nature if I offered to share the spoils?”  
Georg had spoken before he’d quite known what he’d say. That was happening with increasing frequency, when he was near her – that night he’d shown off his salesmanship with the tester perfumes, for instance. But had he really just invited her to share a drink?

Amalia was still regarding him with an exaggerated look of suspicion – but her eyes were sparkling.  
“Fair’s fair,” she nodded abruptly, and went to fetch a pair of paper cups. He couldn’t help but laugh. And, perhaps, with the aid of a fortifying drink, he might find a way to tell her…

When they had divided the remains of the wine into two very full cups, Georg raised his own in a toast.  
“To…”  
“Another day closer to Christmas,” supplied Amalia.  
“And excellent team work.”  
“Excellent!”  
“Cheers.”

They each took a sip. It was still warm, and well-spiced, and delicious.

“Mm!” Amalia raised her eyebrows. “Did Ilona make this? I must get her recipe. I always seem to add a little too much orange peel, myself.”  
“It _is_ good,” Georg nodded. “Very warming.”  
Not that he was ever in danger of feeling cold around Miss Balash.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, suddenly, “have you ever been past the Festival Theater lately? They’re mounting a production of ‘Hedda Gabbler’ – I think it’ll be really worth seeing.”  
“Really? Hah, I used to read a lot of Ibsen back in my school days. Ibsen and Shaw.”  
“Shaw? Alright, tell me – what do _you_ think happens after the curtain falls at the end of ‘Pygmalion’? I _know_ he wrote an epilogue insisting that she and Professor don’t end up together, but…”  
Georg grinned – every day he could see more of his Dear Friend in Miss Amalia Balash.  
“Well, Higgins _is_ completely insufferable, so perhaps she’d be better off without him. But I do see what you mean…”

Conversation continued in this vein for several minutes, as the wine in their cups depleted, and the warmth in Georg’s chest rose to warm his cheeks. Amalia was just on the point of describing an old copy of Shaw’s Collected Works she had once found in a second-hand bookstore, its margins crammed with actor’s notes, when she stopped mid-sentence.

“It’s snowing! Look, it’s snowing!”  
She had raced to the front door and stepped out onto the street before Georg could even reply. Quickly draining his cup, he hurried to follow her.

It was, indeed, snowing. Soft flakes were landing in Amalia’s hair as she turned her face up to the sky.  
“Ohh, it’s beauuutiful!”

Watching her from the doorway, Georg was dimly aware of something rather painful happening in his chest. She was much, much too lovely… How could he ever find the words to tell her? And the wine hadn’t helped at all; it had only made him feel even more off-balance in Miss Balash’s presence than he had to begin with.

He couldn’t tell her tonight. Particularly not considering that her cheeks also looked a little flushed, her manner sweetly giddy. This was not the time. Even if he wanted…

“Looks like we might be in for a white Christmas, if this keeps up. Well, I suppose it’s well past time we locked up. Uh, how will you be getting home, Miss Balash? Would you like me to call you a taxi?”  
“Oh yes, I had better be on my way. A taxi would probably be wise – thank you, Mr. Nowack.”

After she’d gone, Georg walked slowly home, devising declarations of adoration he knew he’d never speak. He was not one of the great literary protagonists he had spent so much time pouring over – he was just Georg Nowack. And, as far, as he could see, he was absolutely done for.


	9. Four Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Dear Friends! This one is SUPER short, because...twelve is a lot of days? Thank you for your feedback! xx

Ilona leant against the workroom door, her ear pressed to the keyhole.

“What a day!”  
“Ha, just wait till the 24th!”

Straightening up, she turned to her two other workmates with a wicked little smile.

“What would you boys say to a harmless festive wager?”  
“A wager?” frowned Arpad. “Over what?”  
“Over whether our Miss Balash and Mr. Nowack will make it to Christmas without confessing their desperate feelings for each other.”  
Mr. Sipos gaped.  
“Oh, come on,” Ilona waved a hand. “You didn’t think you were the only one who’d noticed? They just can’t help themselves."  
Arpad and Sipos shared a look. There wasn't much point in denying it.

"So, whadayya think? I’m not sure they’ll hold out till Christmas Eve. What do you say, Arpad? The 23rd?”


End file.
